Rhythm?
by Viny88
Summary: The past may hold many truths, or a thousand lies, but you can't look back. Or, at least, that is what a certain Saiyan Prince believed- until the past came looking for him...B/V
1. Default Chapter

Rhythm?  
  
The day had started out normal enough, the rising horizon accompanied by its vibrant orange and virgin flaxen streams of pure energy, casting luminance upon the solid ground, highlighting the canopies of dense forestation, blanketing all with its sickeningly bright aura. Or rather, whatever normalcy could possibly be founded on this horrific mud-ball.  
  
The past eleven years had accustomed him to the strange ritualism the planet occupied every day, though the creations that inhibited the ghastly globe still thwarted his understanding. Namely, women, and specifically one woman, though he hardly saw it fit to waste thought on the alien. It was all to vexing to try and comprehend her motives and peculiar taste in lifestyle, and, generally, he preferred to avoid any strain on his genius. Only things of importance were worthy of his time, and one woman, an alien at that, was hardly of any importance.  
  
But somehow it was to him.  
  
He had tried to avoid the barrage of emotion, attempted quite forcibly to shun the maelstrom of feeling she evoked from him, drew from him- but in the end, she had won. Love had conquered. Yes, a petty word, a shameful endeavor to express, ultimately to define a dominating emotion. Of joy, tenderness, affection... of resentment, sorrow, and fierce adoration. It was contradicting, an illicit binding emotion that defied all nature, rebelled against every ounce of sanity.  
  
And it was consuming.  
  
His every conscious thought spurned its presence, cursed its innocence, even revolted the darker element his heart inspired in it. Oh, but how he loved her. Admired and worshiped her. The sound of her voice, when she silently cursed Kami for making her wrench disappear, or the times when she would bite her lip too hard and grumble at him for hours because "It was his fault". Since the blame is rarely suited to herself, rather cast upon whatever sorry creature that had the displeasure of being within close vicinity to her. She was always right, after all.  
  
A thoughtful quirk tipped his lips, his pearl-white canine glinting in the fresh morning light. He was one prone to smirks, more often than not, and sported the challenging grin with sensuous expertise. Likely enough, demeaning as well, though at the moment his styled gesture was a reminiscent adoration only she could kindle.  
  
Ah, yes, she was an obstinate creature. Headstrong, strong-willed, and supercilious- now combine that with the fierce passionate woman he had discovered beneath her layers of defense, and you found yourself with one quite literally impossible being.  
  
Perfectly imperfect.  
  
Unlike him, of course. Naturally, no living creature, from neither past nor present, could equate to his breathtakingly godly good looks. He was a Prince after all, the would-be ascending ruler of the greatest race that had ever graced the universe.  
  
But she would do.  
  
The windowpanes reflected his image, revealing to him what all others could see; the razor-edge definition of his face; the strong set of his jaw; the sensual, burgundy fullness of his lips; the sculpted point of his aristocratic nose; the high cheekbones of his tawny complexion; the dark, flustering of his eyebrows; the deep, ebony widow's peak of his forehead; the blackened flame of his upswept ebony mane; but none captured his true fierce spirit as did the obsidian orbs of burning life. Unlike the brightness that is associated with life, his eyes glowed with surreal fire, blackened pearls of incomparable wickedness, jaded coal gems that saw the world at an askew angle.  
  
"Vegeta," her voice beseeched him softly from behind.  
  
He need not turn, as he could hear, even feel her approach.  
  
"Vegeta," she murmured into his ear, her arms locking about his waist, her body pressing firmly to him, the plush abundance of her cleavage tantalizing the bare skin of his back, her hips conforming about his muscled backside.  
  
"Mmm," she breathed in a sigh, her head pressing into the contour of his neck, her eyelashes tickling the exposed flesh near the beginning of his hairline.  
  
He stood unmoving, the tension customary to his muscles eased by her touch, his senses soothed by her presence. The pulse of his blood grew quick, thicker with the fervor that possessed his every pore, her touch a searing flame- a flame that branded him. His obsidian orbs smoldering with barely restrained passion, an ardor that had survived over a century, he turned to her, enflamed eyes of midnight steel piercing her with their unkempt desire.  
  
Every time they were separated, he tried to convince himself that she wasn't perfect. That there was faults that marred her being. But, oh, how mistaken that proved to be. He adored her imperfections, the things that made her real. Her quick temper, her undisguised desires, her revealing expression of love that she bestowed upon him time and again. In the eyes of the beholder did lay the secret of love, and from two cruelly jaded eyes of the Saiyan no Ouji was the every perfection he found to be her- the only being that had ever captured his heart, the only woman he would ever love.  
  
She was his.  
  
Her arms still latched around him, she gazed at him through heavily lidded eyes, her barely revealed sapphire orbs hazed with the same passion. Her breathing was labored, her lungs eager to breathe the air that he encompassed. Pouted lips of cherry red, agape with longing, tempted him. Her lower lip trembled with the challenge to taste of her.  
  
He was never one to disappoint.  
  
His battle-calloused hands lifted to hold her face softly, his thumb affectionately stroking her cheek flushed with want. She licked her lips tentatively in response, awaiting the imminent meeting of their lips. His mouth twitched with amusement at the self-conscious action, despite the fact that he did the same.  
  
"Foolish onna," he murmured hoarsely, his lips hovering over her own, mere broken moments from caressing each other.  
  
Those broken moments, remained just so.  
  
"M-o-m!"  
  
Bra burst into the room in a flurry of skirts and cerulean tresses. Her cheeks were flushed just like her mother's, though resulting from very different circumstances. She immediately ran to her Father, gripping the leg of his pants, her large blue eyes looking up at him expectantly, just as Trunks barged into the room as well, repeating himself once more.  
  
"Mom," he gasped, out of breath from only Kami knows what. "Mom, she's lying."  
  
"Daddy," Bra chirped pleadingly, "I haven't even said anything."  
  
Vegeta transfixed his stormy gaze on his son; were they incapable of knocking?! I mean, honestly now!  
  
"Handle your children, woman," Vegeta huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, an impudent frown curving his swollen lips.  
  
"Ho- they're MY children now, are they," she snorted, a challenging glint in her eyes.  
  
"I thought we always were," Bra interjected with a thoughtful frown, clinging to her father's leg all the more.  
  
"Sometimes she forgets," Vegeta added, ignoring Bulma's warning gestures.  
  
The human hand gestures that the woman exposed him to were surely unnecessary, if not a little peculiar. Besides, it wasn't as if she could literally sever his head, though he couldn't comprehend the odd violence his mate seemed to possess. Vegeta dismissed it as a result from being his mate. After all, she was a part of him- as he a part of her.  
  
Bulma sent Vegeta a scathing glare before assuaging her daughter's concerns.  
  
"Now what of all this yapping," Bulma sighed with slight exasperation.  
  
"I need the stereo system."  
  
"Trunks keep's turning off the TV."  
  
They replied in unison, both looking expectantly at their most gullible parent; Bra at her father, and Trunks to his mother. It worked, but on both sides.  
  
"Well, Bra, you can watch TV in our room," Bulma suggested, referring to her husband's and her bedroom.  
  
Vegeta nodded in automatic response, an unconscious gesture from the familiarity of simply letting Bulma handle it- but the moment her words sunk in, he rebelled fiercely.  
  
"He doesn't need to use the stereo now!"  
  
"Ye-" Trunks protested, only to be cut off by his father's warning glare.  
  
"What's so important about it," Bra sighed in agitation, sending her brother a covert wink.  
  
Vegeta was too adamant to discharge the situation; he didn't notice.  
  
"Well, I-"  
  
"It can wait," Vegeta ordered in finality, crossing his arms condescendingly.  
  
"...need to learn how to dance."  
  
"So does Goten. We both do. Both of us. Really- uh, ya," Trunks continued, nervously glancing to the floor.  
  
"Please elaborate, I'm not sure that I catch on," Vegeta grated gruffly, his customary sarcasm exerted with royal cynicism.  
  
"Count your father in that scale," Bulma mused, a self-pleased grin claiming her lips.  
  
"Uncle Goku is gunna teach us," Trunks confessed, waiting for his father's reaction with abated breath.  
  
"Because your father can't," Bulma voiced airily, waving a dismissive hand, "I can see your dilemma."  
  
"Kakorrot!"  
  
And that was that; the plan had succeeded. Vegeta was going to dance. 


	2. Chapter 2

****For all my wonderful fans that fueled my passion for writing and were there at the start of my career as a writer, I'd like to introduce you to my first novel! You can read more at .com/ Thank you all so much for your support and for giving me the courage to aspire to reach for my dreams*****

The night shadows crept over the horizon like an ebony canvas, sweeping across the lands with its phantom limbs, foreshadowing the tumult that was imminent. The coming day was eclipsed by a dark magic long left sleeping, swallowing the light in its unforgiving possession. Melancholy winds shuffled through the silence of doom, like poison its transparent fingertips meeting flesh for the first time in over a thousand years, reaching to the souls of all that had forgotten; murmuring in their vulnerable ears. The world became desolate and cold, abated by its worst fear… the end of times. It had begun.

It was the end of the light.

The tarnished hearts of the condemned shifted restlessly in their hollow cages, woken by the beckoning of their master's call. Murmurs broke through the shield that had imprisoned him and caressed the ears of all the beings of the world, silken threads of sound that whispered sweet serenity even within the chaos, voices so soft that all strained to hear, endearing them all to the angelic sound, the whimsical vibrations that echoed from a mouth they knew not. Promises- it knew them all, granting priceless gifts to appease all the desires, all the appetites, and all the power.

Truculent oceans quaked from the velvety caress of the voice, leading the untamed waters to crash upon the shoreline, altering the sands until surrendered to its clutches. The farthest reaches of the seas, deep with the crevices of its unfathomable levels, shifted restlessly until lava spewed forth from its opened heart. Blood red magma never hardened from the waters meet, heated by the voice that still echoed throughout the universe. Lightning ripped through the skies, scorching the ground with its angry electricity as thunder echoed its fury and the sirens that were born of the skies wailed. Their tears drenched all the worlds, their cries making millions crumble to their knees and grasp the ears to drown out the horrendous sound.

A cynical grin spliced his lips, curving slowly with the sweet anticipation of revenge. The cornerstone of his power had been revived; he could feel its presence beckoning him, taunting him with how close it was to his grasp. He listened to the thoughts of the underlings that now wandered these worlds, their vain attempts to soothe their woes. The echoes of his titles made him laugh mirthlessly; the King of the Forsaken, Soulless Shadow, Soul-eater, and so many more just to avoid calling him by his rightful name. Too long he must have slept, for they dishonored him with their meager attempts to declare his personage. He had vanished into mere tales of horror and myth, thousands of years leaving only fools to replace the once wise men that feared his name. Soulless he very well may be, but he was by right and by blood, Tal' Kenai, god of the suns.

It was a name the world would never again forget.

"Brahk ti' marra," he hummed to himself, stretching out his claws rigidly as he sensed the presence of those he hated most.

The gates of Xil'vallore remained closed, the home of the gods and the almighty Fate-Weavers, whose hands cradled and destroyed every life in existence. Impenetrable they declared their walls, hosted with magic deeply rooted past the age of creation to ward off all that dare venture near, but what of one born within their sacred walls? Their arrogance would be their downfall, but he could smell their fear, the way it wreaked like rancid blood. It was intoxicatingly sweet to his nostrils, the unease of his enemies and the demise they had yet to comprehend.

A chortle of laughter echoed through the empty chamber; the once grand throne room he ruled his subjects within, passing edicts and controlling his empire; reduced to the catacombs of a grave. Burgundy curtains haggardly draped the windows that bore no light, for his world had been cast into darkness long ago. Dust lay thickly on the marble floors and the creak of servants no longer haunted the halls, nothing left but his hatred and the empty chest that once bore a heart. Blood dutifully flowed through his veins, prolonging his cursed existence for the eternity they condemned him to live.

Heaving his body forward with a deft lunge, he stretched the coiled muscles of his hind legs. Talons, six from each foot, unfurled effortlessly and dug deep ravines into the marble beneath him. Their blood would soon drain eagerly like an overfilled basin and drip from his hungry mouth, tainting the earth with their treachery.

Even the night shadows could not mask his massive form, the unruly mane that crowned his head, silver like the metallic rivers of Sanore, contrasting to the obsidian eyes that possessed nothing put malice. His snout was long, two great fangs breaching his lips and stretching ominously like razors that gleamed in the hollow light of the moon, eager to pierce flesh and bone.

"Sire," a cloaked man bowed in the entrance, proceeding only at the nod of the mighty head, the two dark eyes observing him distantly.

The lion that's breadth nearly dwarfed the room, whose silver mane and dark brown fur thickly covered his elongated back and tree trunk like legs, quirked his head to the side in cynical amusement. How they let escape the key to his power was more than foolish, for within their haughty ignorance so had they sealed their fates and that of all the worlds.


End file.
